An Erie Thing Should Happen

The bad news for everybody at the Everglades Alligator Farm, the Biscayne Dog Track, the Miccosukee Indian Village and the Parrot Jungle, as well as many of Florida’s other fine tourist attractions, comes from the governor himself. It is also supposed to be the good news.

“I know this hurts our tourism,” said Gov. Lawton Chiles, knowing a political baseball when he sees one, “but I think this is going to be a sweep.”

He means no Game 6 or 7 will be necessary in the World Series, and therefore no return trip to Florida for the Cleveland Indians (disappointing their most loyal fans, including any they might have at that Miccosukee Indian Village).

Well, I hate to agree with a governor.

But I do.

This series will not go six games. It will be clinched in Cleveland--by Cleveland--after five. A wild night of celebration will commence, so pray Lake Erie doesn’t burn. You think some drinking will be done? Trust me, the water won’t be the only thing in Cleveland that night that’s going to be polluted.

Nothing against the Florida Marlins, who have been a traditional baseball power now for nearly a 20th of a century.

It’s just that Cleveland is due, baby.

I can’t wait.

Winning the 1997 World Series will be the greatest thing to have happened to anyone from Cleveland since the day Drew Carey got his own TV show. I have particularly enjoyed those “Major League” movies, in which Charlie Sheen pitches the Indians to a championship. I always did love science-fiction. But the thought of Cleveland actually succeeding, how about that? Wild thing, you make my heart sing.

Everybody back in Ohio is ready to rock and roll. That includes Father Tom, the brother of Florida Manager Jim Leyland, whose parish is in the Toledo suburb of Perrysburg. He has to conduct a wedding there today. But Sunday, after church, Father Tom and the Leylands’ mom plan to watch the Indian-Marlin game together.

For whom will they cheer?

I don’t know. I didn’t even know Toledo had a suburb.

But there is no doubt in my mind how much Ohioans adore their team. For years, I wrote a column each spring, fearlessly forecasting that Cleveland would win the flag. A member of the club’s publicity department would clip each column from the Sporting News, have it framed and mount it on a wall of Cleveland’s stadium. The old stadium. The big one. The empty one.

Fans would call and write to thank me. Even with the passage of time, as I jinxed the Indians further, I received absolution. No one even minded--or noticed--that the team finally began winning, the year I quit guaranteeing pennants. I love Cleveland, because it loves me.

Florida, I’m not so sure.

In the locker room Friday, I was standing with Jeff Conine, the first baseman for the Marlins, when suddenly he began shouting, “OK, out! Everybody out!”

Of course, a fire alarm was going off at the time.

Conine kept standing there, calm as could be, while telling everybody else to leave because the stadium must be burning.

As soon as the alarm turned out to be false, Conine said, “Hey, I know this team has been hot, but not this hot.”

It’s true, the Fish have been on fire.

“En fuego,” ESPN’s Dan Patrick would say, although I think that actually means in the fire, Dan.

In the last few weeks, the Marlins have made a name for themselves. First, they traveled to San Francisco, where they took care of Barry and the Bay boys. Next, they went to Atlanta, where they took care of Chipper and the choppers. Almost overnight, every Marlin looks the size of Shamu.

Furthermore, they are fearless. They’ve got this kid, Livan Hernandez, 22, pitching today against Orel Hershiser, who must have socks that are 22. Hernandez says he doesn’t even know where Cleveland is. You could tell him it’s a suburb of Perrysburg, he would believe you. Kid will still go out there, break off one of those curves of his that curls like smoke from a Cohiba cigar.

“Sometimes I look at him,” Conine says of Hernandez, “and I ask myself, ‘How does he get away with that stuff?’ Then he throws a pickoff throw to first base and the ball explodes in my mitt. One ball, he almost broke my hand.”

I like this kid, like this entire Marlin team.

But at the risk of putting Cleveland in peril, I still say: Indians in five. Hershiser wins the last game, gets out his hymnal and we all go over to Father Tom’s for a community sing. Something spiritual. Something uplifting. No, not “Wild Thing.”